


a hundred corridors

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Hallucifer, M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex, Protective Dean, hallucinating Sam, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-18 00:25:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3549164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First time, set during S7 when Sam is hallucinating Lucifer. Written for a prompt at the SPN kink meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a hundred corridors

**Author's Note:**

> But skin felt  
> it was never seen, never known as  
> a land on the map, nose like a city,  
> hip like a city, gleaming dome of the mosque  
> and the hundred corridors of cinnamon and rope.
> 
> \-- Naomi Shihab Nye, 'Two Countries'

The flames are everywhere, licking along the edge of Sam’s boots, trying to crawl up his sleeve, setting his bed on imagined fire. Lucifer grins and shifts his gaze to Dean’s bed.

“No,” Sam says. “Not him. Come on, please, not him.”

“But we’re having so much fun.” With a flick of his fingers, Lucifer starts a trail of fire along the foot of Dean’s bed.

Sam flees to the bathroom. There’s a disposable razor in the cabinet. He cuts deeply into his palm, and the crackling of flames disappears instantly.

Still shaking, he steps under the shower and turns it on.

 

*

 

“Sam?”

Dean’s voice wakes him from his half-doze. He’s still in the tub, sitting with his back to the wall, water cascading over him.

“Sam, I’m coming in.”

“I’m fine,” Sam says as Dean opens the door.

“The hell you are.” Dean grabs a towel from the rack, shuts off the water, and climbs into the tub.

“Dude, I’m trying to take a bath here.”

“With all your clothes on?” Dean asks gently. Sam looks down at himself in surprise. 

Dean says nothing more, just wraps Sam in the towel and his arms.

 

*

 

He’s in bed when his eyes open next. There’s a clean white bandage around his hand, and the stretch of stinging skin beneath the gauze tells him that the cut has been stitched up. 

“Hey,” Dean says from the other side of the room. 

Sam turns his head on the pillow. “Gimme.” He holds out his hand for Dean’s beer.

Chuckling, Dean comes over and hands him the bottle, puts his hand over Sam’s as they raise it to his mouth.

“That’s better.” Sam slides over to make room for Dean and leans back against the pillows, his head half-supported on Dean’s shoulder.

They stay like that for a while, passing the bottle back and forth. “Thanks for patching me up,” Sam says after a few minutes, still feeling warm and sleepy. 

Dean makes a non-committal sound. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not really, no.” 

“Come on, Sam. What was so bad you had to hurt yourself? Why didn’t you wake me?”

Sam slides deeper into the bedclothes, burrowing into Dean’s shoulder. If only Dean would shut up and just let Sam do this, just let him feel Dean against him, warm and solid.

“I handled it,” he mumbles.

Dean sighs. “Fine. Imma get us some food.” 

Sam slides his arm around Dean’s waist to keep him from escaping. “Stay.”

Dean stills immediately, a protective arm wrapping around Sam. “You seeing him? Right now?”

“No. No, I just... Just stay.”

“Okay. Okay, Sammy.” Dean keeps his arm around Sam, lets him curl around him, and it’s nice. Later, Dean might laugh at him for wanting to snuggle, but right now, it’s really, really nice, like snuggling up to a parent and smelling their warm, comforting smell. Dean smells of leather and beer and sunshine and his own spicy musk, and Sam longs to touch his skin, feel its warmth. He falls asleep with Dean’s fingers stroking through his hair.

 

*

 

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Lucifer says cheerfully, perched on the edge of the dresser.

“Fuck off,” Sam says sleepily, curling himself more tightly around Dean. 

“Had a good night, did we?”

“Best ever,” Sam says without opening his eyes.

“Really, Sammy?”

“Only Dean gets to call me that, you son of a bitch.” Sam presses a thumb into his palm, making blood seep from under the bandage.

Beside him, Dean groans. “Damn it, Sam. You’re going to make that hand rot and fall off.” He checks his watch. “Fuck, I can’t believe we slept through the night. I’m starving.”

He reaches over to ruffle Sam’s hair. “So. Breakfast?”

“Well, this is new,” Sam says, impressed.

“What?”

“You didn’t even ask what I saw.”

“Thought you said you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Yeah, but you respecting my boundaries? That’s definitely new.”

Dean snorts, untangling his legs from the covers. “Dude, sleeping in the same bed with you is hardly respecting your boundaries.”

Sam glances up at him. “Didn’t freak you out, then?”

Dean laughs. “You getting your lazy ass out of bed, or what?”

 

*

 

They eat at a diner not far from the motel, toast and scrambled eggs for Sam and a bacon cheeseburger for Dean. Sam wrinkles his nose at the sight of the grease on Dean’s plate. “Dude, seriously? For breakfast?”

“Kids gotta eat.” Dean winks at Sam and brings his burger up to his mouth. “Come to papa, baby.”

“Got your metaphors a bit mixed up there,” Sam laughs, squirting mustard on his eggs before taking a large forkful.

“Yeah, well, at least I don’t use fucking cutlery at breakfast.” Dean nudges Sam’s toes with his boot to show he’s just teasing, and Sam smiles and nudges back.

Behind Dean’s back, Lucifer grins from the next table and waves.

 

*

 

Back at the motel, Sam’s reaching into his backpack for his laptop when Dean stops him with a hand around his wrist. “No work just yet, okay?”

“Why not?”

“Because I said so.” Tugging him to his feet, Dean steers him toward the bed. 

Laughing, Sam allows himself to be pushed down against the pillows. “Dean, what—”

“Talk to me, Sam.”

Sam groans and throws his head back on the pillows. “Knew it was too good to last.”

“Come on, Sammy. Humor me.”

“Fine. Just get me a beer first. I’m not doing this sober.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, princess.” He goes to the mini-fridge and returns with two uncapped bottles.

“Wow, you even opened it for me. I should go nuts more often,” Sam teases, clinking his bottle against Dean’s before downing half of it in large gulps.

Dean sits down at the edge of the bed, facing Sam. “Don’t even joke about it, Sam. I mean it.”

“Sorry,” Sam says quickly. “But I’m fine now, Dean. Really.”

“Really? Then tell me, Sam, is he here right now? Do you see him?”

“Dean—”

“Just answer the question, Sammy.”

“Yeah,” Sam says quietly, giving in. “He’s over by the window.”

Dean takes a deep breath, as though trying to calm himself. “Okay. Did you see him again last night?”

“After I cut myself? No. Slept like a baby.”

“Jesus, Sam, you can’t keep making yourself bleed whenever things get bad. There’s got to be another way to stop this shit.”

“Well... I think it was you, too.”

“What d’you mean?”

Sam takes another sip of beer before looking up at Dean. “You were there next to me. All night. I guess I, I dunno. Felt safe.”

“I’m always with you,” Dean points out.

“Yeah, but not... like that. You know.”

Dean hums thoughtfully, his eyes on Sam, then kicks off his boots. “Okay. Shove over.”

“What’re you—”

“Just testin’ that theory.”

Sam is only too happy to oblige as Dean presses in close, their bodies touching from ankle to hip to shoulder. Dean wraps a secure arm around his waist, hauling him in. 

“He still around?” Dean asks.

“Don’t know.” Sam buries his nose in Dean’s collar, breathing in deep. “Don’t care.”

Dean’s hand cups the back of Sam’s head, fingers massaging his scalp lightly. “All right, Sam. Just...”

His voice trails off as Sam’s hand curls over his hip and then pushes beneath his undershirt, blindly seeking skin.

Dean sucks in his breath, his hand stilling in Sam’s hair. “Sam—”

“Please,” Sam murmurs into Dean’s chest. “Won’t ask for more. Just this, Dean, please just let me... please.”

 

*

 

Dean’s head spins as Sam’s hand clutches at his back, fingertips pressing into his skin. He can feel the outline of Sam’s lips over his shirt, against his collarbone, just pressed there. 

“Please,” Sam says again, barely audible. 

“Sam,” he begins, trying to ignore the almost unbearable warmth of Sam’s fingertips against his bare skin. “Sammy, listen to me. I don’t know if—”

“It’s me, Dean.” Sam lifts his head from Dean’s shoulder. “It’s not Lucifer or anything else playing games in my head.”

“Then—what the hell, Sam? It sounded as if—as if you wanted—”

“You,” Sam says, pulling away from Dean’s arms and sitting up. “Yeah, I did. I do.”

 _Holy fuck._ Absurdly, Dean wants to reach for Sam and pull him close again. Because you don’t say shit like that to a man and then fucking pull away. Because the shutters are coming down over Sam’s face, terrifying Dean more than anything else.

Sam rubs his knuckles into his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m fucked up, Dean. This is just another way in which I’m fucked up. Look, let’s just forget I said anything, okay?”

“No,” Dean says, angry. “No, Sam. You don’t get to talk about yourself like that.”

Sam laughs, humorless. He scrubs a weary hand over his face. “Thought we’d agreed I was a bona fide freak.”

“Yeah, but you’re my freak. And I’m just as fucked up, if not more, so I’m not playing the judge here, Sammy.”

Sam looks up and meets his gaze, finally, finally. “So we’re okay, then?”

“Course we are. But Sam—if this—what you said—if it’s something you need, if it’ll help you deal, then...”

“Then what?” Sam asks, too softly, not looking at Dean again. “Then you’ll suffer through it? To help me?”

“Damn it, Sam, that’s not what I said.” 

“I know you’d do anything for me,” Sam says with one of his tiny flickering smiles. “But I can’t ask you to... Not this, Dean. Not unless...”

He doesn’t have to finish his sentence. _Not unless you want it, too._ Dean, feeling wrecked, has no answers for Sam.

They sleep in separate beds that night.

 

*

 

“Sam! Sam, wake up. C’mon, Sammy, wake up.” 

Sam awakens in blind terror, still gasping from the nightmarish images in his head. Dean’s leaning over him, looking as scared as Sam feels, his hands clutching Sam’s shoulders. He reaches blindly for Dean, instinct taking over everything else, and Dean doesn’t fail him. 

“Sshh,” Dean says, wrapping Sam in his arms. “Sshh, it’s okay, I’m here, I got you.”

It’s a long time before Sam calms down, the only sounds in the room his harsh breaths and Dean’s soft shushing. Sam buries his face in Dean’s neck and hangs on tight. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean says when Sam finally loosens his death grip around Dean’s neck. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

“About what?” Sam asks hoarsely, still cradled in Dean’s arms and not inclined to move just yet.

“I shouldn’t have left you alone. You said it helped if I was close, but I was too busy freaking out to listen.”

“Not your fault.” Sam says wearily, starting to move away, but Dean tightens his arms around him.

“Just sleep. Everything else can wait until the morning. Sleep, Sam.”

 

*

 

This time, he wakes to the early morning sun lighting up the room, and to Dean’s even breathing. He lies still for several minutes, savoring the quietness, letting himself stay wrapped up in the warm cocoon that they’ve made under the covers.

As if sensing that Sam’s awake, Dean rolls over on to his side and opens his eyes blearily. “You okay?”

“I’m great,” Sam grins. “You really aren’t your best at ass o’clock in the morning, are you.”

“Ah, shut up.” Dean throws an arm and a leg over Sam and promptly shuts his eyes again.

“Get off me, you great lump,” Sam laughs. “I gotta pee. And go for a run.”

“Don’t forget the coffee,” Dean’s muffled voice says into the pillow as Sam slides out from under him. He lifts his head. “And Sam?”

Sam pauses at the bathroom door. “Yeah?”

“Be careful.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yes, mommy.” He shuts the door just as a pillow hits it.

 

*

 

He almost makes it back safely to the motel room.

The morning air is crisp and refreshing, just the right side of cold. He works up a good sweat as music from Dean’s iPod streams into his ears. He’s never going to admit to Dean, of course, that he’s been taking Dean’s music along on his early morning runs. There’s something comforting, something like home, about the familiar music, almost like having the Impala back again. Almost, but not quite.

His mind wanders as he runs, taking him back to the conversation the night before, to the nightmare in which Lucifer cheerfully tore Dean apart in front of Sam’s helpless eyes. The bad dreams had returned even with Dean beside him, but they’d been more manageable, as though his subconscious had known that he was safe.

Lucifer shows up just as he’s heading back to the motel with the coffee.

“Such boring things you drink these days,” he says, falling into step beside Sam. Sam ignores him, lengthening his stride, but Lucifer keeps up easily. He’s holding the demon-killing knife, polishing its blade against his sleeve. “Just because you don’t drink demon blood anymore doesn’t mean you aren’t a bad little boy, Sammy.” He steps into Sam’s path and drives the knife into his stomach, right up to the hilt.

Sam cries out in agony as red-hot pain rips through his guts. Coffee spills on to his feet, scalding his skin through his running shoes. His knees buckle but Lucifer holds him up with the knife, twisting it deep into Sam’s flesh. He crumples as the blade is yanked out, and warm, wet blood pools around him as lies on his back on the ground. 

“Did you know,” Lucifer says, watching him interestedly as he lies paralyzed with pain, “that a stomach wound is one of the slowest and most painful ways to die? I’ll bet you did, bright boy like you.”

“This isn’t happening,” Sam says, the words barely intelligible through the blood that’s filling his mouth. “You aren’t real.”

Lucifer grins. “Feels real enough, doesn’t it?”

Dimly, Sam can hear Dean screaming his name in the distance. “Leave him alone,” he manages to say before everything goes dark.

 

*

 

The motel manager helps Dean carry Sam back to the room. His brother seems unharmed except for the coffee stains on the bottom of his jeans and all over his running shoes, but even unconscious, his arms are wrapped tight around his middle, as if he’s trying to protect himself. Assuring the manager that all will be fine, claiming that Sam only had an epileptic fit, Dean sends the man on his way and shuts and bolts the door behind him.

Taking off Sam’s hoodie and sweat-drenched t-shirt, Dean wipes down his chest with a damp towel. His feet are far worse than the rest of him, angry-looking blisters rising up in a few places. Dean gets a tube of burn ointment from their ever-ready first-aid supplies and gently smears the medicine over Sam’s skin, exhaling in relief when Sam begins to respond to his touch, moaning and trying to get his foot out of Dean’s grip.

“Hurts,” he murmurs, struggling to open his eyes. “Dean.”

“Almost done, Sammy.” Putting the ointment aside and wiping his hands on the discarded towel, Dean goes to pour a double shot of whiskey into a glass. Downing it in one gulp, he pours another and takes it over to the bed.

Sam sits up groggily and lets Dean press the glass to his lips, taking a sip and wincing at the burn. 

“Okay?” Dean asks, brushing several strands of wayward hair out of Sam’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Sam says, blinking up at him. “What happened?”

“You tell me. You crumpled like someone had cut your strings.”

Eyes widening in recollection, Sam looks down at his bare stomach, touching it gently. “He stabbed me. Right here.”

Dean sucks in his breath. “Lucifer? You felt it?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, wincing at the memory. “Yeah, it felt pretty real. And then... then I was somewhere... I don’t...”

Setting the glass on the nightstand, Dean sits down beside Sam. “Hey.” He cups the side of Sam’s face with one hand. “Come on, look at me. It’s all right. You’re safe now. Tell me what you remember.”

Sam turns his face into Dean’s hand, breathing deeply against his palm. “I dunno,” he murmurs into Dean’s hand. “Was like... a house. Think I was dreaming. There were rooms, lots of them. All white, empty. Lots and lots of corridors. Thought I’d be lost there forever.”

“Not gonna let you get lost, Sammy.” The words come out instinctively, even if he doesn’t have the power to make them true.

“Think it was real.” Sam shudders a little, and Dean shifts closer. “Think he wants me to stay there, be trapped.”

“Sam, listen to me. It’s not real. This is real.” Dean brings up his other hand, framing Sam’s face, thumbs rubbing gently against his cheekbones. “This is real. This. Here. Now. Me.”

“You,” Sam says, compliant, leaning forward to rest his forehead against Dean’s.

“Yeah, Sammy. ’S real. I promise.” They’re breathing the same air now, noses touching. Sam’s breath is soft and warm against Dean’s face, and it seems the most natural thing in the world to tilt Sam’s face a little, bring their lips together. Sam moans against Dean’s mouth, pressing back immediately. It only lasts for a long, sweet second before Sam’s hands push against Dean’s chest, forcing them apart.

“Fuck, Sam, I’m sorry.” The words spill stupidly as Dean’s brain struggles to catch up with his mouth, his lips still slick from the whiskey-and-salt wetness of Sam’s mouth. “I’m really sorry, I thought you... thought you wanted this, man.”

“Not like this, Dean.” Sam’s visibly shaking. He rubs a hand over his lips, as though trying to wipe the kiss away. “Not because I’m a fucking nutjob and you’re so freaked you’ll do anything to bring me back to earth.”

“Damn it, Sam, it’s not like that.” Dean reaches for Sam but his brother’s already pulling away.

“Then how is it, Dean?” Sam winces as his bare feet touch the floor, but he stands up and picks up the glass of whiskey, draining the rest. He doesn’t sound angry, just resigned.

“Don’t sound like that, okay?” Dean says, arms aching to pull Sam close again. “I wanted to kiss you, Sam, you were so close and you... It felt good, Sam, it felt so fucking good.”

“Don’t.” Sam shuts his eyes, swaying a little on his feet. “Christ, Dean, don’t _say_ things like that or I’ll…”

Dean puts his fingertips on Sam’s waist, touching him lightly, hooking his thumbs into the belt-loops of Sam’s jeans, not letting himself think. Sam needs him to be gentle, but fuck, they need this, they’re so close to something huge that it’s filling up Dean’s chest, not letting him breathe with how much he needs this. He bows his head against Sam’s body, tugging him a little closer, letting his lips brush against the soft bare skin of Sam’s hip. Sam makes a small, hurt sound, pushing closer, and Dean opens his knees to bring Sam between them, parting his lips against Sam’s hip and pressing an open-mouthed kiss there. 

“Dean,” Sam chokes, his hand curling into the hair on top of Dean’s head.

“Want this.” Dean’s lips stay against Sam’s hip, pressing the words into his skin. “Want you so fucking much, Sam.”

 

*

 

Dean looks up at him, eyes bright and wet and so fucking beautiful that Sam can’t tear his gaze away. “Dean,” he says again, because there are no other words for what he wants to say. He slides to his knees on the floor, his body bracketed between Dean’s strong thighs, his hand still in Dean’s hair, clutching, his face pressed into Dean’s neck.

“’S okay,” Dean says, his arms circling around Sam, holding him close. “’S okay, Sammy.” He takes Sam’s face in his hands again, pressing slow kisses into his hair, his forehead, his cheek. “Let me do this, baby. Lemme take care of you.”

Sam sobs out a laugh at the ridiculous endearment, clinging to Dean, letting himself be kissed and petted like a puppy who’s had a fright.

“C’mon, get up here.” Dean slides his hands under Sam’s arms and tugs him up, gently manhandling him until they’re lying close together, Dean on his back and Sam on his side, his head on Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s caresses never stop, his hands warm and slow and careful against Sam’s back and arms and hair. He murmurs soothing nonsense against Sam’s ear, and Sam lets Dean’s voice and touches lull him into a pleasant half-doze. He knows Dean’s wrecked, too, his voice hoarse and soft and kind of broken, and he’s never loved Dean as much as he does now, when he’s holding himself together for Sam’s sake, letting Sam be his world. _I’m going to take care of you,_ Sam vows silently to himself even as he melts into Dean, their bodies wound close together. 

“You wanna sleep a bit?” Dean murmurs against his hair.

Sam shakes his head, and props himself up on an elbow. “You kidding me?” he says lightly, sliding his hand up Dean’s chest, rubbing his thumb into the space between his nipples. “I’ve finally got you where I want you, man. Sleep’s the last thing on my mind.”

Dean throws back his head with a laugh, the sound soft and rough and beautiful to Sam’s ears. “Good, Sammy. “Cause I got plans for you.”

“Do you have any idea,” Sam grins, “how fucking arrogant and how fucking hot you are right now?”

“You bet your sweet ass I do,” Dean says, grinning his wicked grin, tracing Sam’s lower lip with his thumb, but there’s still something soft and sweet lingering in his eyes as he looks at Sam, and looks and looks until Sam feels himself growing warm under his big brother’s gaze. He’s never seen that look in Dean’s eyes before, not even when he checks out gorgeous women in smoky bars. Then Dean hooks his arm around Sam’s neck and pulls him down for a kiss, and Sam stops thinking entirely.

 

*

 

They kiss and kiss as if there’s nothing else to be done, no world waiting to be saved, no hallucinations wandering around in the edges of Sam’s vision. At least Dean hopes there aren’t, not while they’re doing this. He isn’t fool enough to think he can make Sam’s problems go away, but maybe, just maybe, this can be a weapon, too, another way to protect Sam.

He takes handfuls of Sam’s hair, curls his fingers into it and holds on, letting Sam take his mouth with greedy abandon. The taste of Sam’s mouth is thrillingly new and yet familiar, as though it’s a long-buried memory rather than something Dean’s never had before: a wild flavor like the taste of grass, sweet and fresh. Sam’s hands are wandering constantly, mapping Dean’s chest, his arms, his back, his hair, as if he’s throwing himself completely into this new discovery.

“Dean,” Sam says against his mouth between kisses. “Dean.”

“Yeah, Sammy.” Still kissing him, Dean rolls them over, so that he’s on top, Sam spread out beneath him. Sam groans and arches up into Dean’s body. Dean cradles Sam’s hips in his hands, stilling him. “Slow down,” he says, thumbing the soft bare skin above Sam’s waistband. “Gonna make this good for you, Sam.”

Sam makes a small sound of consent, his eyes shut, his lips parted and shiny-wet, his hands clutching at Dean’s shoulders. Dean lowers his head and nuzzles Sam’s throat, presses a slow trail of kisses down to one peaked nipple, tonguing it softly until Sam slips a hand into his hair and tightens it, needing more. He slides lower, hands still on Sam’s hips, and presses his mouth to Sam’s navel, running his tongue gently around the rim. 

“Dean,” Sam chokes out. “Please.”

“What do you need, Sam? Tell me.” He slides his hands up Sam’s chest, thumbs pausing to caress his nipples. 

Sam arches into the touch, gasping. “That. More. Please. God, Dean.”

Dean smiles into Sam’s stomach, laying another kiss against his belly-button before turning his face into the crotch of Sam’s unbuttoned jeans. He tugs the zipper down with his teeth and nuzzles in, nosing at Sam’s hardness through the soft cotton of his white briefs. Sam’s rigid with need, a damp spot already forming just below the waistband of his underwear, making the thin cloth a little translucent. Dean kisses him there, gently, carefully, letting the tip of his tongue caress the warm, wet head of Sam’s cock through the cloth, getting it a little more wet, and then sucking it lightly into his mouth. He tongues Sam’s slit through the soft cotton, slipping his hands under Sam’s ass to get a firm grip.

He lifts his head to give Sam a quick glance, to check if this is all right. Sam’s watching him with huge, blown eyes, his breathing rapid, soundless.

“This okay?” Dean asks quickly.

Sam nods, sucking in a noisy breath. “Yeah. Yeah, more than okay. Dean, you sure about this?”

In response, Dean tugs Sam’s briefs down and kisses his naked cock. With a strangled oath, Sam arches into Dean’s mouth, legs spread wide. Dean goes to work in earnest, running his tongue along the underside of Sam’s shaft, getting it wet and slick, nuzzling, nibbling lightly with his teeth, tasting. Sam’s dripping pre-come now, his hands tangled in Dean’s hair, his breath coming in sobbing gasps. 

Dean lifts his head again. “Fuck my mouth, Sammy,” he says, just before he swallows Sam down. Sam feels huge in his mouth and he almost panics for an instant before he overcomes his gag reflex and lets Sam into his throat, opening himself as wide as possible. He uses his grip on Sam’s ass to encourage him to fuck up into his mouth, nice and easy at first, slow and gliding. And then it isn’t difficult at all to get used to it, to figure out how to breathe through his nose while he makes Sam use his mouth. Sam’s letting out small whimpers now, and Dean could get used to this, get used to Sam sounding so helpless with pleasure, sounding so broken with need for Dean and nothing else, because nothing else is going to break Sam if Dean can help it. 

Sam’s hips are off the bed now, his ass cheeks held up by Dean’s hands as they fuck like Dean hadn’t thought it was possible to fuck, his mouth full of warm, hard cock and his chin dripping with his own spit. He’s gasping every time he urges Sam to thrust deep, taking it hard, his eyes watering, and it’s the hottest thing he’s ever, ever done.

And it’s amazing how well he knows Sam, how he instinctively knows that Sam needs more. Letting go of Sam’s ass with one hand, he slides the blade of his hand into Sam’s crack and runs it up and down, turning his hand to let one spit-slicked finger rub against Sam’s hole before driving it in, quick and deep. Sam screams out his name and floods Dean’s mouth, his fingers so tight in Dean’s hair that he’s sure some of it’s out by the roots. Dean couldn’t care less, not when his mouth is still full of Sam, not when he’s shaking and gasping and looking utterly spent and _Dean_ did that to him.

Letting Sam slip out of his mouth, he crawls up Sam’s body and pushes his damp hair back, kissing his lips gently.

“Gross,” Sam says hoarsely against Dean’s mouth, his fingers still entwined in Dean’s hair, loosely now, as if he doesn’t know how to let go. “You taste of come, dude.” He doesn’t let go, though, and they stay like that, mouths close together, lips barely touching.

“That okay? You liked?” Dean says, grinning against Sam’s lips.

“Asshole,” Sam says, exhausted, and pulls Dean closer. “How are you even still dressed?”

“You can get me naked later,” Dean laughs, wrapping an arm around Sam and pillowing Sam’s head on his shoulder. “Go to sleep, Sammy.”

 

*

 

He sleeps for twenty blissful minutes before Lucifer wakes him up, but Sam isn’t complaining, not when he’s still on a high from Dean. Lucifer’s quieter, somehow, whistling softly as he sits at the table by the window, whittling at a piece of wood with the knife he’d stabbed Sam with.

Ignoring Lucifer, he turns into Dean’s body, squishing his nose up against Dean’s chest, letting his shirt and his smell filter the air that Sam’s breathing.

“Hey,” Dean says, his lips against Sam’s hair. “Go back to sleep.”

 _I don’t know if I can,_ Sam wants to confess, but he doesn’t, not when Dean sounds so relaxed, so... happy, almost. He’s still a little tired, but there’s no pain anymore from where Lucifer had fake-stabbed him, and his entire body feels tranquil and sleep-warm and nourished. Fuck, he hasn’t come like that in forever. Maybe never.

“Thanks, Dean,” he says instead, curling closer around his brother.

“Ah, shut up,” Dean says easily, his hand rubbing circles into the small of Sam’s back. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” Sam realizes. Breakfast was supposed to have been a couple of hours ago, and he’d barely eaten the previous day.

“Great.” Smacking a kiss against Sam’s forehead, Dean gets out of bed. “Pizza?”

“Sounds good,” Sam smiles. It sounds perfect, actually. He knows Dean’s opted for pizza because he doesn’t want to leave Sam alone while he goes out to get food, and the thought both warms him and raises a little knot of worry in his stomach for how much babysitting he’s going to need. Resting back against the pillows, he lets the smile linger as he hears Dean order Sam’s favourite Hawaiian cheese-and-mushroom pizza. Dean hates the little bits of pineapple they put in.

They share the pizza sitting cross-legged on the bed with the box between them, Sam’s beer on the nightstand beside him and Dean’s cradled between his folded legs. Every so often Dean picks out a bit of pineapple and feeds it to Sam, his fingertips lingering between Sam’s lips a little longer than necessary, and when Sam gets a bit of sauce at the corner of his mouth, Dean leans over and licks it off, almost upending his beer in the process.

“Seriously?” Sam grins. “That was straight out of a rom-com, dude.”

“Shut up and eat your food, Sam.” Dean crams almost a whole slice of pizza into his mouth, as if that will somehow make him less sexy, make Sam less eager to forget about the pizza and get Dean’s clothes off. 

They don’t stop touching throughout the meal, and even later, once the pizza’s been thoroughly eaten and they’re stretched out on the bed, an old Laurel and Hardy film on the television, their legs tangled together and Dean’s arm firmly around Sam. Dean keeps up a non-stop commentary, making the film even funnier, mimicking the actors and adding his own lewd dialogue, making Sam laugh and laugh until his stomach hurts. 

“So,” he says during a commercial break. “I noticed you didn’t get off earlier.” He sneaks a glance up at Dean’s face.

Dean looks down at him, maddeningly expressionless. “And?”

“And, uh, I was wondering if...”

“If what, Sam?” Dean asks, taking Sam by the wrist. “If I wasn’t turned on by what we did?” He pushes Sam’s hand down to his jeans, pressing it against his hard length.

“Fuck,” Sam says, instantly aroused. He rubs his hand over the denim of Dean’s jeans, watching his brother’s face as his eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck me, Dean,” he says, nipping at Dean’s jaw, his palm pushing down hard against Dean’s cock. “Want you to fuck me.”

“Someday,” Dean says around a gasp as his hips move up to meet Sam’s hand.

Sam sits back on his heels, his hand still cupping Dean through his jeans. “Someday?”

“I—I can’t hurt you, Sam. Not like that.”

“Dean, I’m _asking_ for it.”

In response, Dean just tugs him closer until Sam is straddling his hips. “Yeah?” He unzips Sam’s jeans, eyes never leaving Sam’s face. “Tell me what you want.”

“I— _fuck_ , Dean.” Dean’s hand slips into Sam’s jeans from the back, fingertip brushing against Sam’s hole. He doesn’t know when Dean got it wet, but it’s right there, moving against his hole in slow circles, slick and perfect.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Dean says, letting his finger slide in just a bit. It should sound dirty, like a line from a bad porno, but tempered with the way Dean’s nuzzling against the side of Sam’s face, pressing a light kiss against the shell of Sam’s ear, it sounds more affectionate than anything else.

“More,” Sam whispers, his mouth open against the warm, soft skin of Dean’s throat, his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, please.”

Dean responds instantly, wrapping his free arm tight around Sam and treating him to a shallow finger-fuck, dipping in and out of Sam’s hole in time with the rhythm of their hips as they thrust against each other. “I’d open you up with my fingers first,” he murmurs, “just like this. Actually, you know what, I’d use my mouth first. Kiss and lick your sweet little hole until you… fuck, Sammy.”

He stops when he feels Sam come with a strangled moan, biting down on Dean’s shoulder. Sam shudders against Dean, his whole body tingling with aftershocks. “Dean.”

“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean sounds as wrecked as Sam feels, his finger still inside Sam’s body. He starts to withdraw it, but Sam clenches around him.

“No. Just… just leave it there for a while. Please.”

Dean’s still hard under him. Sam wriggles a bit and gets a hand between them, lifts his head and watches Dean come undone beneath him, Sam’s name slipping from his mouth as he comes with his finger buried in Sam’s hole and his other hand tangled in Sam’s hair.

“Thank you,” Sam murmurs. “Thank you.” He kisses every part of Dean’s face he can reach—the strong line of his jaw, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead. 

Then their lips meet in a slow, sweet kiss. Lucifer’s saying something in the background, but the words are fuzzy and faraway, and this, this is Sam’s world: Dean around him and inside him and under him, everything else miles and miles away.

“Always keep you safe,” Dean says between kisses, the words spilling into Sam’s mouth. “Never gonna let anything hurt you, Sammy, never.”

“I know,” Sam says, breaking this kiss for a moment because he needs to say it. “And I’ll do the same for you. You know that, right?”

“I know,” Dean says. And Sam looks down at him, sees the truth of it on his brother’s face just before they fall into another bone-melting kiss.


End file.
